


'Til You're Mine

by arabella505



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Arctic Monkeys - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-02-23 19:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18708154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabella505/pseuds/arabella505
Summary: Alex and Alexandra haven't spoken since that fateful morning after Hotel Cafe, and she was ready to keep it that way. But when he comes back into her life during the "Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino" tour, and it's clear that he's in need of a friend, she has not choice but to let him back in. She just doesn't know if their past won't come back to haunt her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I shouldn't be starting another story, but I am. Updates might be slow since this 1 of 4 stories I'm working on! But I love these two together!

**One**

_ “No I never really understood _

_ How you do it like a stranger does _

_ Send me flying every time”  _

\- Alexandra Savior

I wake up to the sound of Dani’s text coming in– the chime sounding violent and unwelcome against my hangover. Shifting in bed, I groan into my pillow, the headache spreading out from between my eyes, across my skull. My mouth still tastes like wine and cigarettes, and I know it’s going to be a rough morning.

Eyes still closed against the summer sunlight streaming through my windows, I grab my phone from the bedside table. Prying one eye open, I read the text.

_ The banana people are freaking out. Your boyfriend is a baby egg. _

I sort of know what Dani means, because after five years I’m finally starting to be able to translate her coded references. She’s been calling Arctic Monkeys fans ‘banana people’ since 2014, so they’re the ones freaking out about Alex for some reason. She calls him my boyfriend. He’s not. And I don’t know what she means by baby egg.

All I have to do is google him though, and I know immediately. 

Alex cut his hair.

Though my hangover protests, I sit up in bed and click the link for the Colbert performance, and I watch with a pounding head, holding my breath.

His hair has been cropped close to his scalp, looking like a shining layer of peach fuzz against his skull. A pair of sunglasses shields his eyes, but something about him looks exposed, vulnerable, young, and I’m almost surprised when his deep, velvety voice comes out so low and strong.

I’ve listened to their new album multiple times since it came out, but I haven’t seen any performances. So watching Alex sing and sway and gesture, makes me feel like I’m hearing ‘The Ultracheese’ all over again, and sends goose bumps all over my body. And then, when he whips his glasses off and looks directly into the camera halfway through the song, my throat goes tight and my stomach hollow. He belts into the microphone, so beautifully, so effortlessly, and I think of all those hours we spent together on ‘Belladonna of Sadness’. Days in the desert spent talking in lyrics and metaphor, watching each other through the glass of a recording booth, finishing each other’s thoughts– so in sync it seemed like we had known each other all our lives. We spent so much time together that I had the angles of his face memorized, was familiar with the precise way in which he moved, had found myself thinking in his accent.

But I haven’t seen him or spoken to him since that morning after Hotel Cafe, and it feels almost like I don’t know him anymore– like Alex Turner is a complete stranger to me. But when he puts his glasses back on, when he’s swaggering around the stage like he owns it– there’s something in the lean of his body, in the smirk on his lips– that is so brutally familiar that it leaves me winded.

Another text comes in from Dani.

_ He and the Bag must be done _

I close out the video to respond, saying:  _ It’s a haircut, Sherlock Holmes. Chill. _

I can picture Dani, sitting at her desk in West Hollywood, googling Alex instead of actually doing her job. It manages to makes me smirk, despite my throbbing head.

_ Remember the quiff! _ is her immediate response.

I roll my eyes and lock my phone, refusing to dignify this with a response. She’s referring to his change of hair style when he and Alexa Chung broke up.

Before I worked with Alex, before anything between us happened, Dani and I knew next to nothing about him. We had no reason to. I listened to the Arctic Monkeys tangentially, and Dani had never even heard of them. But as the weeks passed with us working on the album, and Dani hearing more about him, she went cyber stalker and dredged up every Tumblr and Reddit thread she could find. She knew every fan theory about his love life over night, and liked to randomly bring out each one without explaining anything to me, just assuming I knew. Her detective work was valid, according to her, thanks to the banana people.

But I don’t know why Alex cut his hair, and what’s more, I don’t care. Even if it _ is  _ because he and his girlfriend broke up. He’s not in my life anymore, and it’s not my problem.

I get out of bed, the cat following me to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen. He watches me while I chug a glass of water, and then start a pot of coffee. I lean against the kitchen counter with my head in my hands, listening to the coffee machine whir into life. The smell of fresh coffee, shockingly, turns my stomach, so I toast a piece of bread to settle my stomach. 

I drank too much wine last night. Jeremy and I had fought on the phone, and then I thought if I had a glass of malbec it might settle the melancholia just right and I’d be able to write some music. It didn’t. I just kept drinking until Dani got home from her date and then insisted I drink some water and stop watching  _ Real Housewives _ with the cat. Clearly I didn’t listen.

I throw a dozen ice cubes into a glass for my coffee, and take it, and my toast, outside into the yard. I sit in the sun, with my face turned towards the sky, and I try not to think about Alex, though it’s futile.

Things had been quiet between the end of Alex’s Last Shadow Puppets tour and the release of “Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino”. After Hotel Cafe– of which Dani didn’t know the details– I would hear bits and pieces of Alex’s life through the tour. She would send me videos and comments and gifs, even though I told her Alex and I had fallen out of touch. “He looks particularly fucked up in this performance, Lex,” she would say, turning her laptop to show me a video of Alex performing at some festival, dressed eccentrically, looking absolutely high out of his mind. “Maybe he misses you.” I would shrug, and ignore her. She didn’t buy my aloof reactions, until the tour ended and she saw that he really wasn’t in my life anymore, and that I was touring, and working, and not talking about it anymore.

Now that the “Hotel & Casino” tour is going on though, Dani is back to inundating me with videos and pictures and speculations about Alex’s love life and mental health. She’s my best friend, but sometimes I want to ring her neck.

Once I’ve eaten and start sipping on my coffee, I begin to feel better, so I go back inside and grab my guitar. With it nestled in my lap, the caffeine starting to do its magic, and the flowers in the garden illuminated in the California sun, I feel like maybe today I’ll actually be able to write something, but the moment I place my fingers against the strings, I feel lost. It’s the same feeling I’ve had since May– since I’ve started to seriously work on my next album. It’s the feeling of writer’s block, of the lack of creative thought, the inability to think in music. It’s the feeling that has made me wish Alex was in my life now, more than ever, because I know it would help to talk to him. 

But I refuse to reach out after Hotel Cafe.

I stretch my fingers around the neck of the guitar, flexing slightly, and then I start to play old stuff, trying to get my brain working out the kinks of my stuckness. My fingers instinctively play “Here Comes the Sun”, and I hum as I play, my throat feeling dry and scratchy to start. When I finish, I immediately transition into Bob Dylan’s “Girl from the North Country”, singing softly. And then I play “Girlie”, my voice feeling a little smoother. Without thinking, I start playing “Miracle Aligner” when I’m finished, and I let my thoughts wander as I play and sing.

I think of Alex and I working on the song, the way his lashes framed his dark eyes as he stared while I sang, while we wrote and played and felt like we were creating something beautiful. It makes my stomach twist with how much I miss it– how much I miss making music at all, but how much I miss him too. And then I think of his smile, aimed at me, his hands on my waist, his lips on my neck, and–  _ fuck _ . 

I put my guitar aside– because this isn’t helping– and sit back, bringing my fingers to my lips to chew  on my thumb nail.

Nothing would make me happier than to truly let him go– to forget everything that happened years ago. I have a boyfriend, a career, and Alex has his own life, his own girlfriend– has clearly moved on from whatever we had. It’s doing me absolutely no good to think about the past, to let these memories crop up and send me into a tailspin. So, in an effort to distract myself, I take my things inside, put on a Joni Mitchell record at top volume, and paint until my thoughts go blank.

I’m in bed, about to go to sleep, when I get the text message.

Dani got home from work, immediately trying to about Alex’s buzzed head, but I wouldn’t have it. Instead, I suggest we get some thai delivered and catch up on  _ Game of Thrones _ – since we were still trying to finish it before the next season started. She quickly got distracted, and we were occupied for hours.

I’ve just turned the last light out, and I’m settling into bed when my phone lights up beside me. I don’t think anything of it– am sure it’s probably just Jeremy, actually– so I look at it without hesitation.

When I see Alex’s name on the screen, my heart immediately starts pounding. 

We haven’t said a word to each other, spoken or written, in  _ years _ now. What are the chances he’s reaching out the day after the debut of his haircut, when Dani is throwing him in my face once more?

I hate to admit my hand is shaking slightly when I unlock my phone and read.

_ Hey Savior. Been thinking about you lately. Just wanted to see how you’re doing _

And just like that, he’s back in my life– without a word about what happened between us, without an apology or an explanation or a disclaimer– and of course, I let him in.


	2. 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alex Turner wants to meet with you.”
> 
> 2014 Alexandra doesn't know what to expect when she learns Alex Turner wants to meet with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for inter-chapter flashbacks. Sorry.

**2014**

_ I’m sitting at the kitchen table, writing in a patch of noon sunshine, when my phone rings. _

_ “Alex,” Maggie says once I answer. “I have good news.” _

_ It’s been five months since I signed to Columbia, and things have been surreal with how perfect it’s all been– so I can’t imagine how things could get much better. _

_ “Alex Turner wants to meet with you.” _

_ My mouth falls open in surprise. It’s been nearly a month since Maggie asked me for some of my stuff to send around so we could find a co-writer for some songs on the album, and she had mentioned she would be sending it to the Arctic Monkeys frontman, but I never thought anything would come of it. Of course I’ve heard some of their stuff, and his lyrics are great, but I don’t know if it’s really my sound. I also know nothing about  _ **_him_ ** _ as a person, and it feels strange to entrust even a part of my first album– something that genuinely feels like my firstborn child– with a complete stranger. _

_ “I’m going to set up a meeting,” Maggie goes on to say, not waiting for a response. “Just coffee or something– he can tell you what he thinks, and we can move on from there. Sound good?” _

_ “Yeah,” I finally manage to reply. “Thanks!” _

_ When she hangs up, I pull my laptop across the table and open it, my writing forgotten for the moment, my guitar laid to the side. I type in Alex Turner’s name in my search engine, and watch as the screen fills up with images and links, and I feel the intimidation settle in my stomach like a coiled snake. _

_ The pictures that line the top of the results are what get me first– this handsome, slicked back, leather-jacket-wearing James Dean, poised with a guitar and sunglasses, aloof. A black and white photoshoot from GQ makes my throat go dry. He looks like he’s seen the world, been chewed up, spit out, gotten jaded and become glossy because of it– he’s on the other side of the struggle now,  _ **_cool_ ** _. This guy is going to eat me alive. _

_ I rest my forehead in my hand as I put on some of his music, his most recent album, ‘AM’. _

_ This music is all rough edges and sleek lines, songs about late nights and beautiful girls and drinking. It’s made up of sex and cigarette smoke, and my 19 year old inexperience metaphorically blushes. I  _ **_like_ ** _ it, it’s just not feminine or soulful or haunting– it doesn’t sound like me, or what I want to create with my music. The wordplay charms me despite my reservations– the beautiful lyricism and the way it flows with the music. I pause my scrolling through images to look up the lyrics of some of the songs I listen to, and I can’t help but get excited– thrilled to have some of this magical poetry injected into my work. _

_ I spend hours doing this, because now I need to know who I could be working with– who could possibly be helping me birth my baby. I don’t stop for lunch, just absently pick at carrots and hummus, pita chips, and switch from coffee to wine once the sun starts to dip behind the trees. I haven’t turned the lights on, and the sky outside the kitchen window is a swirl of pink and orange sorbet, cicadas singing in the distance. It’s dim in kitchen, but I’m transfixed by my searching, my troll through pictures and interviews and articles and lyrics. _

_ I see paparazzi photos of him with his ex girlfriends, beautiful models with long, slim legs, and unbelievable bone structure. I watch his transformation from mop-haired adolescent, to slick-quiffed man. I listen to the sound of his music changing over time, the evolution of lyrics from Sheffield-centric storytelling to ‘Suck it and See’ romantic. And then I stumble onto the 'Submarine' soundtrack. _

**_You got a lift between the pitfalls_ **

**_But you’re lookin’ like you’re low on energy_ **

**_Did you get out and walk_ **

**_To ensure you’d miss the quicksand_ **

_ It feels like coming home. It’s not haunting or murderous, but it’s soulful, and simple, and so, so beautiful. Right down to your soul beautiful. **This** is the person I want to write with, the person whose music feels right, feels like it matches my energy and my soul, and what I want to give to people. _

_ Dani is walking in from work when I get to the Brit Awards video though, and I'm immediately struggling to reconcile the "Submarine" Alex Turner, with the one swaggering on stage in front of me. _

_ "Hey, Lex," Dani says, dropping her purse to the middle of the floor, kicking her shoes off wherever they land. _

_ “It might hibernate from time to time, sink back into the swamp." _

_ I find myself wincing against the douchiness of it. _

_ “What are you watching?” she asks, grabbing the wine from the fridge to fill a glass for herself. _

_ “But it’s always waiting there, just around the corner, ready to make its way back through the sludge and smash through the glass ceiling, looking better than ever.” _

_ She sips her wine, and starts watching over my shoulder. _

_ “Yeah, that rock and roll, it seems like it’s faded sometimes, but it will never die. And there’s nothing you can do about it.” _

_ Dani makes a gagging noise. “Who says that after just winning an award? Why don’t you just jerk yourself off right–” _

_ And then he drops the mic. _

_ We groan in unison. _

_ The video ends and Dani moves back, leaning against the counter. “Who is that?” she asks, nodding towards my laptop. _

_ “Alex Turner– the guy I might be working with for the album.” _

_ She snorts, makes a disgusted face, and says, “Good luck.” _


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I laid in my bed, phone held aloft, above my face as I read it. If he was reaching out so nonchalantly after all this time, he must have a purpose, right? I was sure he was going to ask me about Columbia Records, or the album, or Cameron, anything relating to work. And if not, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking how the tour was going, diving deeper into this small talk. We were past small talk. I deserved more than small talk. So I didn’t reply to the text at all, just locked my phone and laid in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing before I could pin them down."

**_Two_ **

 

_ “There’s a mysterious force _

_ It sinks in its claws _

_ Pulls me closer to yours” _

_ - _ Alexandra Savior 

 

Alex and I begin texting as if nothing happened– as if we’re back in that time where we were just collaborators, becoming friends, comfortable with one another, easy together, excited about our work, our art. It didn’t start that way though. That first night he texted me after the Colbert sighting– so casual, so aloof– I was cautious, hesitant to reply even though every single one of my defenses were already crumbling away as his ‘Ultracheese’ performance played on a loop in my mind. I waited a full twenty minutes before I responded, staring into the dark like a crazy person while thoughts played on a wizened film projector in my mind– before I texted back just as casually, if not impersonal.

_ Doing well! How are you? _

He didn’t need to know I was struggling to write anything for my second album, that I was in a mostly long distance relationship that was probably not going to last much longer, that most days I felt listless and flustered and purposeless.

_ All right,  _ he replied.  _ Busy with the tour and all _

I laid in my bed, phone held aloft, above my face as I read it. If he was reaching out so nonchalantly after all this time, he must have a purpose, right? I was sure he was going to ask me about Columbia Records, or the album, or Cameron, anything relating to work. And if not, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking how the tour was going, diving deeper into this small talk. We were past small talk. I deserved more than small talk. So I didn’t reply to the text at all, just locked my phone and laid in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing before I could pin them down.

My phone lit up again with another text, only moments later.

_ Actually, I’ve been shit. Can’t sleep most nights. Thoughts racing and all that _

It wasn’t like him, to be so vulnerable and honest, and it broke down any last vestige of resentment I was holding towards him.

_ Me and Taylor broke up _

So Dani was right.

_ Are you okay? _ I finally managed to type back. Then immediately followed by:  _ How drunk are you? _ Because it immediately occurred to me that he must be fairly smashed if he was texting me this way, after all this time– after our last encounter.

I expected a quippy response, something witty and dry that would set me straight. I expected him to bounce back into resilience, coolness, closed-offness. What I wasn’t expecting was for him to _ call me _ . The second his name popped up, immediately after my text went through, I froze, my heart leaping against my ribcage like it was trying to escape. He obviously knew I was near my phone, so the question was, did I make a point and  _ not _ answer– to make it clear that things were most definitely different after Hotel Cafe? Even if he was “ _ shit _ ”, even if he and Taylor  _ were _ done. 

I answered. Of course I answered.

“Hello?”

“Savior,” he said, and I could hear it: he was 100% gone, probably drunk  _ and _ high.

“So I was right,” I replied.

He paused, and it was so quiet I couldn’t even hear him breathing, before he finally said, “A bit.”

I sat on the line, my heart still beating so hard I could feel it across my ribcage. It sounded like he was smoking, or taking a sharp inhale of breath. I thought about making a joke about the first time we were speaking in months being a drunk dial, but instead I said, “I saw your hair.”

He laughed a little, and I felt stupid again, like a little kid, like the first time we met, and I cringed, before he asked, “‘ow do yeh fink it looks, love?”

“Soft.”

He laughed again, deeper, and I smiled.

We were both quiet for a long moment, and I thought of our texts, making me ask, “Are you okay?”

Now he was definitely taking a sharp, shaky breath, and then he said, “I’ll be fine– I’m just pissed, tha knows?”

“Al,” I chided sternly.

“ _ Alexandra _ .”

“If you’ll be fine, why are you calling?” I felt brave to ask it outright, but I knew I needed to.

He paused, before saying, “All right– I’m– I’d like a friend, is all. I  _ am _ fine.”

He sounded very drunk, despite the rationality of his words, and I was worried. He had his share of friends– the band, Miles, Cameron, even some of his exes– so why was he calling  _ me _ ?

“Are yeh still me friend, Savior?”

If nothing else, I knew I could do that– if he really was struggling like it sounded, with whatever it was he was struggling with– so I said yes. And we’ve been texting ever since, casual exchanges about music, the tour, old jokes and book suggestions. I send him a picture of some of my sketches. He sends me a picture of the moment Matt buzzed his head. And most nights, after a performance, no matter where he is, he calls. I don’t always answer, because sometimes I’m with Dani, or on the phone with Jeremy, but most of the time I do, and I talk to him while lying in bed in the dark, or sitting in the warm, evening air in the backyard. We don’t discuss why he’d like a friend right now, but I can tell something is off, that he’s not himself, and I’m not sure if it’s the break up or something more, but it makes me stick around. It makes me refrain from bringing up, or even thinking about, Hotel Cafe.

I don’t tell Dani or Jeremy that I’m talking to Alex again, because there’s no point. Dani would jump to conclusions, begin speculating, start her own Reddit thread about it. And Jeremy doesn’t know Alex, or understand our friendship, because it was before I even knew him, so he would probably think the worst without any context. There’s no reason to share it, or explain myself anyway. I’m just being there for a friend.

* * *

 

Jeremy lands in L.A. the first weekend of August, the beginning of a month long stay in California. I haven’t seen him since June– since I spent a week in New Zealand just to hang out with him– and I borrow Dani’s car to pick him up at the airport. He’s staying with a friend in Marina Del Rey until September, but we get dinner with his bags still in the trunk first. 

The Chinese restaurant is bright, with big open windows, a stone’s throw from Venice Beach, the sun high and hot despite the early evening hour. Jeremy and I slide into a table against the exposed brick wall, and the first thing I do is order a beer, because being around him is already making me fidgety and nervous.

“How’s the writing going?” he asks.

I make a face and leave it at that, taking a sip of my beer. I don’t really feel like hearing Jeremy tell me all the many logistical ways in which I can write this album. He composes scores for TV and commercials, so he gets music writing, but his cut-and-dry method doesn’t work for me. He can set his alarm, get up, and compose until lunchtime no matter his mood. I need to  _ feel _ it. I need to sink into the emotion and the melody until it overtakes me and forces me into the writing process.  

“You sure you don’t want a drink?” I ask, because he’s just opted for a water, but he’s much less uptight and critical when he’s had a drink.

He shakes his head. “It’s morning for me.”

“I mean, we’re having chinese,” I point out with a laugh.

“So?”

I shrug, and the interaction makes my entire body seize up against his presence, just as the waiter comes over to take our order. Unfortunately, this is how most of our interactions and conversations have been going lately– tense, stilted, uncomfortable– and when your relationship is long-distance, it makes it that much worse. And there’s no particular reason for it. I mean, there’s no  _ one _ reason for it. I can feel our differences charging the tension between us, our slip of compatibility stretched to its limits, and each disagreement or butting of heads explodes into much worse than it needs to be. Since I haven’t seen Jeremy since June, this usually happens over text, or email, or phone conversation, and that in itself just breeds toxicity.

Obviously, it wasn’t always like this. When we met at a party six months ago, I was drunk enough that I thought his black and white, color-inside-the-lines way of living– so refreshingly different from Alex– was attractive. He was also drunk enough that his usually-borderline-OCD uptightness didn’t come through. Why I so quickly and willingly got into a relationship with someone who lived in New Zealand, I don’t know. Maybe I was desperate. Maybe I was just desperate to be distracted from thinking about Alex.

Either way, it worked for a little bit. Jeremy  _ did _ distract me from Alex. Until about two months ago when everything either of us said or did seemed to drive the other person crazy. It happened slowly, when I was staying with him at his townhouse. I would leave a spoon in the sink from my coffee and he would ask why I hadn’t cleaned it right away. He moved around the bedroom loudly while I was trying to sleep in. He asked me if I really wanted another glass of wine at dinner. I put my hand on his leg and he said ‘I’m really tired, not in the mood’. We had sex once, that entire week I stayed with him in June, and it felt forced on both our parts– like a chore, something we had to do because we’re dating and it had been months, and I had flown all that way. And I thought about Alex the whole time.

And I’m thinking about Alex now, while I sit across from Jeremy, wondering who is going to be the one to end this. Because it’s definitely  _ going _ to end. Probably during this stay. It’s just a matter of time, and I’m wondering– knowing that it’s inevitable– why I haven’t just done it already. Or why I’m not doing it right now.

My phone vibrates in my bag when our food arrives.

_ Alex _

“Who is it?”

“Dani.”

The lie trips out before I even think twice, and I’m wondering, if the break up is so inevitable, why am I bothering to lie? If we’re going to break up why do I care if he’s jealous, or if it annoys him that I’m talking to Alex again? Why do I feel the need to lie anyway? When I’m not even doing anything wrong?

_ Just crossed the border into Canada _ , Alex says.  _ Listening to Belladonna and thinking of the desert _   
  


I text back and sip my beer, feeling weirdly detached from the person in front of me, and entirely connected to the one in another country. 


	4. 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "As the rest of Alex Turner emerges from the car, I see that he’s wearing dark jeans, and a plain black t-shirt. His hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place, and he’s got aviators covering his eyes as he lazily looks up and down the street to cross. When I remember that he’s coming here to meet me, my nerves jangle like I’ve just been electrocuted. I suddenly feel very young, and very uncool in comparison."
> 
> Alexandra and Alex meet for the first time.

**2014**

_ I don’t know what to expect when I get to the Mustard Seed Cafe to meet Alex Turner. I’ve spent the morning like I’m going on a date– picking out my clothes, putting on red lipstick, brushing through my flyaway bangs– and thinking about that Brit Awards speech. When I get to the cafe early and get a table by the window, my stomach is in knots, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this nervous. _

_ When the waitress comes by, I order a coffee, but it will only make my anxiety worse, so I sip it once and then leave it. _

_ Outside, people pass by, and the sky is a bright, happy blue. I watch a lab, panting at the end of its leash as it cuts a swift path down the sidewalk, its owner strolling in its wake. A sleek, black Cadillac hooks around the corner, pulling into a newly vacated spot a little ways down the street. I watch the door open slowly, and a black boot land on the asphalt, and I know this is him. _

_ As the rest of Alex Turner emerges from the car, I see that he’s wearing dark jeans, and a plain black t-shirt. His hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place, and he’s got aviators covering his eyes as he lazily looks up and down the street to cross. When I remember that he’s coming here to meet  _ **_me_ ** _ , my nerves jangle like I’ve just been electrocuted. I suddenly feel very young, and very uncool in comparison. _

_ People stare as he approaches the cafe, whether it’s because they recognize him, or because he looks so famous, I don’t know. He doesn’t take off his sunglasses when he comes inside, but he makes a beeline for me right away. I stand up, feel awkward, and smile. _

_ “‘Ello, love,” he says in a British drawl when he reaches me, and he puts a hand out for me to shake. I take it, mesmerized by this person– the shiniest, coolest person I’ve ever encountered– surprised by the gentleness of his fingers around mine. “Been ‘ere long?” _

_ “No,” I shake my head, both of us sitting down. “Just a couple minutes.” _

_ “It’s good to meet you,” he says, and he sounds genuine. He hasn’t taken his glasses off though, and I find myself thinking of the Brit Awards mic drop once more. “When the label sent me your stuff I didn’t know what to expect– I was surprised.” _

_ “What were you expecting?” _

_ “Alexandra McDermott,” he says, as if my name is a brand or an object to be considered from afar. He shrugs, and goes on, “I thought maybe a country rock pop princess.” _

_ “Taylor Swift.” _

_ “In some form.” _

_ I make a face, and shake my head.  _

_ “But I liked the demos,” he says with a smile. “More original than I was expectin’.” _

_ I raise an eyebrow. _

_ “I don’t mean any offense, love,” he amends. “It’s just the music industry, innit?” _

_ I bob my head in acquiesce.  _

_ “So, what do you want your sound to be? How do you want this album to feel?” _

_ No one’s ever asked me that about my writing or my music. It’s always things like ‘what’s the song about’, ‘what’s the genre’, ‘what’s your audience’. I’ve never been asked how I want it to  _ **_feel_ ** _ , or what I want it to be when it’s finished– though that’s entirely what drives me. I feel suddenly sure of myself. _

_ “I’ve always felt like– it’s like being in the desert and getting abducted,” I tell him, thinking back on the same vision I’ve had in my head for my music since high school. “And opening up to a realm where there’s a bar– and there’s nobody in it, it’s dark, and there’s just a dark red light in the corner.” _

_ As I’m explaining myself, Alex is staring at me from behind his glasses, and I can’t read the expression on what I can see of his face. It occurs to me that maybe I should be self conscious about this deep-rooted feeling I have about my music– this red-lit desert realm– but I’ve already started and I feel like I’m existing more in that realm than right in front of him anyway. So I keep talking, carried further on by my own words. _

_ “And then there’s a woman crooning in a long, black dress,”  I say. “It’s like being in a jazz club in outer space– or a lounge on the moon during a war.” _

_ He takes off his glasses, and pins me back with a pair of intense brown eyes. I suddenly feel like an idiot for explaining my music this way, with the nakedness of his eyes now, and I clam up. _

_ He considers me with those dark irises for a moment longer, before he says, “You want your album to feel like this place?” _

_ I nod, unsure of how he feels about this– if he’s about to laugh me out of the music industry. _

_ “That’s brilliant,” he says, sounding  _ **_impressed_ ** _. “Some of the best albums I’ve ever ‘eard feel like places. And this place– this realm you’ve come up with– I get it.” _

_ My face suddenly feels warm, my whole body feeling light and tingly under his gaze. “Really?” _

_ He smiles–  _ **_really_ ** _ smiles– this crooked, lopsided smirk, and it transforms his face. He’s still magic, still shiny and cool, but also a real human being. I have the strangest urge to touch him– his hair or his shirt or his wrist– just to prove myself right. _

_ “D’yeh reckon you’d like to write some songs together then?” he asks through his little smirk. _

_ It occurs to me, in this moment, that even if he had turned out to be that cocky asshole who drops a microphone after an awards acceptance speech, I would probably still say yes to working with him. It also occurs to me that I should probably say no because of that– because of how strong his pull is, how hypnotised I feel, how drawn to his magnetism. I can’t tell if it’s a romantic type of pull, or if I’m star struck, or just mystified. I just know I want more of it. And I know that could get in the way of making the album I want, being the artist that I want, and it makes me hesitate. _

**_This realm you’ve come up with– I get it._ **

_ “Yeah,” I agree, because he gets it, and because I want more of this person, even if it’s just to learn from him. “Let’s do it.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexandra's description of her sound and their first meeting is directly from this interview: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCoMvc287b8&t=203s


	5. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'I’ve been writin’ a lot about you since ‘otel Cafe.'
> 
> It sets my whole body on edge– blood rushing, pins and needs, tingling all over. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and I try not to shiver at his words, at the huskiness of his voice, the suggestion in his tone. 
> 
> 'And thinkin’ about it a lot lately,' he goes on, without my saying anything. 'You’ve done me ‘ead in, Savior.'"

**Three**

_ “And it goes on _

_ It goes on and on _

_ While you’re here  _

_ And long after you’re gone” _

-Alexandra Savior

Jeremy is not a piece of meat. I know this. I’m not the type of person who objectifies men, or who only thinks about sex. I want a relationship with someone who I can have meaningful conversations with, and easy silences with, and someone I can laugh and create and enjoy my time with. But Jeremy has been here for a week, and none of that has happened. Our conversations have been stilted and forced, our silences uncomfortable, and we haven’t laughed at all. The only thing that’s left is the physicality of our relationship, of which there is currently none. So, I can’t help but sit on the couch with him, watching a movie, thinking  _ only _ about sex. 

Am I just horny or do I want  _ him _ ? Should I just reach over and grab his dick? Lick his neck? Climb into his lap? Why is this so difficult to initiate? Do I even want to initiate something with him? Is he waiting for  _ me _ ? Why is this so hard? At some point I stop watching the movie. I feel like a teenage boy, gearing myself up to put my arm around my girlfriend of a week. Except, I’m a full grown woman and this is my long term boyfriend who I haven’t slept with in ages. I’m so frustrated I could tear my hair out. 

When my phone vibrates against my leg, I thank God for the distraction. 

_ Alex _

“It’s my brother,” I lie– another one about Alex– without even thinking about it, and take my phone into my room, closing the door. “Hello?” 

“Savior.” 

He’s so drunk I can barely understand the slurring of my name, but I do. And I’m surprised. He’s been drinking a lot lately– I mean, he’s always been someone who drinks a lot– but I’ve never heard him this  _ gone _ before, unable to stop himself before he becomes senseless. 

“‘Ow are you, love?”

“I’m fine, how are  _ you _ ?” I don’t want to condone the drunkenness, but I don’t want to outright scold him either. That’s not my job; I’m not his mother, or his girlfriend. 

“Been bett– better,” he stutters. “Got a little sick from the drink– tha knows?”

“Are you alone?” I ask, because I can just invision him walking into the fucking Seine. “Where are you? What are you doing?”

“I’m in Finland,” he answers, as if that’s what I really meant. “On tour.”

“No,” I roll my eyes. “Alex. Where are you right _now_? Is anyone with you?” 

“I’m walkin’ back to me room,” he answers, and I can hear a car as it drives by him, making me wince. “I’m fine, aren’t I? Left the boys at the pub– cut meself off– bein’ responsible.”

“Why aren’t you taking a cab back?” 

“Wanted to call you,” he answers, as if that makes sense as an answer at all. “Keep me company on the walk.”

“You’re going to get lost, or hit by a car,” I scold him. “Would you call a cab?” 

“Nah ‘m’ fine.” It comes out as one word:  _ Namfine _ . “‘Ow was your day?” 

I sigh, because the best I can do is stay on the phone with him until he makes it back to his hotel. “It was fine,” I tell him. “How was yours?” He sighs heavily, but doesn’t answer. “Alex?”

“I’m ready to come ‘ome,” he says, his words warbled. “I think I– I think I need a break.”

I’m suddenly worried, at the drinking, at his tone, at this– that he wants to be done with the tour and come home, when I’ve never known him to want to do anything but work. 

“Alex, are you okay?” I ask. “I mean, is everything all right?” 

He’s quiet for a long moment– so long that I’m worried he’s hung up, or passed out– but then he says, “I don’t know, Savior.”

I’m quiet now too, because I don’t know what to say, or what he needs. Distractedly, I think of Jeremy sitting in the living room watching the movie alone, but I can’t really be bothered to check on him– or let him know I might be awhile. I’m glued to the phone, to Alex’s well-being, to being here for him. 

“‘Ow’s the music?” Alex asks abruptly, as if he wasn’t just impossibly vulnerable. 

“Fine,” I tell him. I wonder if he knows Columbia dropped me, or can intuitively tell that I’m struggling to even start my next album–  _ single _ , even– or that I still resent him for everyone thinking  _ Alex Turner _ , when they hear my name, even though that’s not necessarily his fault. 

“Can I ‘ear somethin’?”

“No,” I tell him, answering too quickly, too abruptly. 

“Nah then,” he says, and I can hear people talking around him, voices echoing. “I won’t laugh, Savior.” 

“Why do you assume it would be something  _ worth _ laughing at?” 

He actually does laugh at that– at my annoyed, acidic tone– and it both enrages me, and relieves me. Of course I’m glad he’s off the ledge, so to speak, but does it have to be at my expense? 

“Don’t get defensive, love,” he says, and something about it, the tone– his comforting, nurturing cadence, meshing with that underlying condescension– hits me with a sense of deja vu that is so strong I could cry. “It weren’t like tha’.”

I’m thinking about our first days of knowing one another, of working together, where he was so obviously taking my by the hand and leading the way– my mentor and protector in music. He wanted to assuage my fears, nurture me in the cold, hard world of entertainment. And I welcomed it, but also pushed back. I wasn’t as much of a child as he was making me out to be– I didn’t need protecting– I didn’t want a knight in shining armor, I wanted an equal to collaborate with and learn  _ with _ . 

“You know you’re an inspiration to me too, la,” he says gently, and I can hear the ding of an elevator. “Oo was it tha’ shared that lunar fantasy with me?” 

I had wondered if he would say anything about that– the likeness of ‘Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino’ to my own dream world for ‘Belladonna of Sadness’.

I’m about to say something when my bedroom door opens without a knock, Jeremy standing in the doorway, a question pulling up his eyebrows and wrinkling his face. I’m about to react– smile or give him a ‘1 minute’ finger– when Alex continues speaking and I stop.

“I’ve been writin’ a lot about you since ‘otel Cafe.” 

It sets my whole body on edge– blood rushing, pins and needs, tingling all over. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and I try not to shiver at his words, at the huskiness of his voice, the suggestion in his tone. All while Jeremy is staring at me, growing annoyed, in the doorway. 

“And thinkin’ about it a lot lately,” he goes on, without my saying anything. “You’ve done me ‘ead in, Savior.” 

What can I say in front of Jeremy? What can I sat  _ at all _ ? My tongue has gone thick in my mouth, and my heart is pounding at the thought. 

“Why are you saying this  _ now _ ?” I ask, because Jeremy can’t make much of that. “That all happened forever ago.”

“I’ve missed you, ‘aven’t I?” he replies, and everything has gone quiet behind him. He must be back in his room finally. “‘Oo else am I supposed to be thinkin’ about when I’m alone on the road?” 

I swallow past the dryness in my throat, as Jeremy gives up and turns around, going back into the living room. 

“Your girlfriend.” 

I say it before I can really think about it, and then I wince at my own gruffness. 

“She’s not me girlfriend anymore, is she?” 

I don’t say anything, properly shamefaced. 

“I wish you were me girlfriend.”

I can barely speak when I finally say, “You’re drunk.”

“Not tha’ drunk,” he tells me, even though I know he is even _drunker_ than that. 

From here, I can hear the movie, can hear Jeremy rifling through my refrigerator. I feel dizzy from want, like I would evaporate if someone touched me, as if my body is made up of a million live wires. 

“Can I see you when I come ‘ome?” 

I nod before I think about the dangers in this, before I even contemplate all the ways I could get hurt. When I realize he can’t see me, I have a moment to take it back, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “Sure.” 

We’re both quiet for a long time, before I finally realize I have to pull myself away. My boyfriend is waiting for me in the living room, he thinks I’m talking to my brother, and the more we talk– the more he hints at  _ us _ , and  _ then _ , and everything that’s happened– the more aroused I get. 

Fuck. 

“I have to go,” I tell him. 

“Will you call me, love– later?” 

“Maybe,” I say. “I have to go,” and I hang up before he can say anything else. 

I wander back into the living room, where Jeremy has returned with a beer. He’s staring at the TV, but I can tell he’s not really watching the movie. 

“Your brother, okay?” he asks, and I can't even tell if he's suspicious or not. 

I sit down next to him, at least a foot away, and just make a “hmm” sound. I should feel guilty maybe, or annoyed with him–  _ something– _ but I feel nothing towards him or his reaction. Instead, I feel like I’m vibrating, suspended in mid-air, breakable. The tension in my body is entirely Alex’s fault– the humming of my blood at its height is because of all of his talk of Hotel Cafe, and writing songs about me, and–  _ goddamnit! _

Maybe it was a mistake to let him back into my life. I should have known his pull was too strong– the force he has over me too great. Why did I believe his bullshit about needing a friend and being a mess, when he was just trying to flirt and charm his way back into my– what? My pants? My life? And that can’t be true, because he clearly is a _huge_ , _fucking_ mess. I don’t know why or in what way, but something’s off. And it doesn’t even make me any less attracted to him. 

_Fuck_. 

Jeremy’s about to say something about the stupid movie when I grab him and kiss him, sloppily, because he’s taken off guard, and he makes a questioning sound. But when I climb into his lap, he doesn’t stop me, he kisses me back, and then he ends up fucking me. And when he does– when the tension is finally driven out of my body, and he’s thinking more about himself than me, I close my eyes and touch myself with him inside me, and I can’t help but think about Alex and his words. 

_ I’ve been writin’ a lot about you since ‘otel Cafe.  _

It’s Alex’s teeth on my earlobe. 

_ And thinkin’ about it a lot lately.  _

Alex’s hands clutching at the naked skin of my waist. 

_ You’ve done me ‘ead in, Savior. _

It’s Alex giving me the orgasm that has me gasping for air and shaking, even when it’s all over.


	6. 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'You don’t look like someone who would drop the mic at an awards show.'
> 
> I’m immediately embarrassed. Fuck. I just wanted to hold my own, show him I have teeth, but now he’s going to know I stalked him. Jesus Christ."
> 
> 2014 Alexandra is more nervous than she'd like when Alex invites her to his house to get to know each other before working together.

**2014**

_ Dani and I listen to Sam Cooke as she drives me to Alex Turner’s West Hollywood home. We both drag on our cigarettes, and dangle them out the open windows in intervals, navigating our way through the Hollywood hills. I’m feeling a little calmer about this meeting than the last one, probably because Alex and I have been texting back and forth the last couple of weeks– just about music and the industry, and work– and he’s become much more human to me. Though there’s still a pit of tangled nerves lodged in my stomach that I can’t deny.  _

_ “You know he dated Alexa Chung, right?” Dani says, her energy bordering on manic. _

_ I don’t know who’s more excited about this meeting– her, or me. After my first encounter with Alex, when I told her I would be working with him on some songs, she dove into her CIA-level research with fervor.  _

_ “This is kind of a big deal, Alex,” she told me, sounding as if I should be more frightened, looking up from her laptop as we sat on the couch that first night after the Mustard Seed Café. “He’s like,  _ **_really famous_ ** _.”  _

_ I gave her a dubious look over the Stephen King I was reading.  _

_ “Like,  _ **_really_ ** _ famous,” she repeated, scrolling on her laptop once more. “His band has won a ton of awards. And they, like, have a lot of Tumblr pages dedicated to them.” _

_ I laughed out loud. “Dani, I’m sure there’s a Tumblr page for everything.” _

_ “Alex, you’re going to be  _ **_famous_ ** _!”  _

_ I rolled my eyes.  _

_ Now, as we drive toward his house, she’s on a roll once more– revealing everything in her Alex Turner dossier while we drive.  _

_ “You know how I feel about Alexa Chung,” she shakes her head, taking a pull on her cigarette.  _

_ “No, I don’t.” _

_ “She was the It Girl of my teenage years, Alexandra,” she practically snaps, scolding me. “Like, you know how many Teen Vogues I ripped apart to put her on my wall?” _

_ “This is brand new information.” _

_ She scoffs. “Philistine.” _

_ I laugh, but as we get closer– as the car climbs higher up the hills– I’m feeling more nervous. I’m thinking about Dani’s prophecy of Alex making me famous, and I don’t know if I necessarily  _ **_want_ ** _ to be famous. Or, at least not famous because of someone else’s celebrity and its proximity to me. And there’s still the possibility that Alex Turner and I won’t work well together, that I’ll be stuck in this shitty situation that will hurt my vision for this album. There’s a chance he turns out to be just as much of a douchebag as I originally worried, and I’ll be stuck in his house until Dani can come get me.  _

_ “Isn’t this where the Manson family murders happened?” _

_ Dani looks at me like I’m crazy and asks, “What is the matter with you?”  _

_ I shrug, feeling the anxiety manifesting itself in images of cult murder.  _

_ “That’s Benedict Canyon, you creep,” she says. “Would you relax? If he turns out to be Charles Manson you can just walk out and I’ll pick you up down the hill.” _

_ “That’s reassuring.” _

_ “He’s  _ **_not_ ** _ Charles Manson,” she chides. “He dated Alexa Chung  _ **_and_ ** _ someone who was Vine famous!” _

_ “Charles Manson hung out with the Beach Boys,” I return. “I don’t think that  _ **_means_ ** _ anything.” _

_ “I think you’re nervous because he’s hot and famous– and possibly a total douchebag– and you’re displacing it.” _

_ “Okay, psych 101,” I quip back. “Thanks for that analysis.” _

_ “Don’t project on me, bitch.” _

_ When we pull up to the house, it’s hidden by a solid, outer wall, electric pink bougainvillea bursting from behind it. I buzz an intercom by the front gate, and it immediately slides open. Turning back, I give Dani a raise of my brows, before she’s watching me walk up the driveway, waving with a smirk. She blasts the Beach Boys as she pulls away, making me roll my eyes.  _

_ The house isn’t a monstrous mansion, and it doesn’t look like the site of a cult murder. It’s actually a nice but understated, modern house, with a small manicured lawn, and flowers and shrubs lining the outer wall.  _

_ The door opens before I even reach it, and Alex is standing in the doorway, barefoot in jeans and a plain white t-shirt.  _

_ “All right?” he calls jauntily, as I reach the front step.  _

_ “Hi,” I say, feeling caught off guard for some reason, thinking I had more time to prepare.  _

_ “Come in then,” he says with a smile, and he steps aside, opens the door wide.  _

_ The house is cool, and the light coming in through all of the windows is plenty, but muted. Everything is white, clean, and modern, or retro and sharp– cadmium stained wood and 1960s patterns. Alex leads me into the sleek kitchen, opens the refrigerator.  _

_ “Drink?” he asks.  _

_ “Sure.” _

_ “Pick your poison, love,” he opens the refrigerator door wider, revealing beer and wine. “I also ‘ave the ‘ard stuff too, if yeh’d like.”  _

_ “Beer is fine,” I tell him. “Thanks.” _

_ We take the drinks into his sunken living room. He sits on the sofa, lounging backwards with his ankle crossed on his knee, and I perch on an armchair facing him.  _

_ “It’s a bit early still to start writin’ anythin’ together I expect,” he says. “Thought it would be nice to talk music and get to know yeh before we get into a studio.”  _

_ I nod, feeling like I’m sitting down with a teacher, or a doctor, waiting for instruction. Absently, I wish I had asked Dani how old this guy is– because she definitely knows. Maybe he’s not even that much older than me, maybe I’m feeling more like a little kid than I need to. I take a long pull from my beer and try to shake the feeling of subordination I’m sinking into.  _

_ “So, what sort of music do yeh like?”  _

_ I shrug, and say, “A little bit of everything.” _

_ “Nah then.” _

_ “I mean, I probably gravitate more towards older music– Otis Redding, Etta James, Billie Holiday,” I tell him, settling back into the armchair, because I can be comfortable in this, I can talk music all day. “But I love a lot of indie– and the dirty stuff too.” _

_ Alex actually laughs at this, spluttering a little, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. When he recovers he asks, “The dirty stuff?”  _

_ I scrunch up my face, realizing how that sounds, though I’m not embarrassed. “You know, the Velvet Underground, the Modern Lovers– ZZ Top.” _

_ “ZZ Top?”  _

_ I nod, daring him to question me.  _

_ “You don’t look like someone ‘oo listens to ZZ Top.” _

_ “You don’t look like someone who would drop the mic at an awards show.” _

_ I’m immediately embarrassed. Fuck. I just wanted to hold my own, show him I have teeth, but now he’s going to know I stalked him. Jesus Christ.  _

_ But he’s immediately laughing, looking surprised but impressed, and he says, “Touché, McDermott.”  _

_ “What was the first album you ever owned?”  _

_ He looks pleasantly surprised by this too, and he settles back into the couch, considering his answer before he says, “I think it were Oasis.” _

_ I groan. “You definitely played ‘Wonderwall’ alone in your bedroom, didn’t you?”  _

_ “What if I did?” he counters just as playfully. _

_ “I would say someone who’s won so many awards should be more original than that, but I’ve done it too.” _

_ “What about you then, Miss McDermott?” he asks, finishing off his beer. “What was your first?”  _

_ My first. That sounds faintly sexual. And the way that he’s holding my eyes, a smirk playing at his lips. No. Look at him. Look at this house. He dropped a fucking mic at the BRIT Awards. This guy is not flirting with me.  _

_ “I think I stole the first Fiona Apple album from my mom’s car when I was in kindergarten.” _

_ “Sounds about right,” he laughs, standing up. “Can I get you another?”  _

_ I drain the rest of my bottle in one go and hand it over with a smile.  _

_ I’m not buzzed yet, but I’m warm, comfortable for the first time today, so I stand up and look at the books and photographs on a shelf by the sliding glass door to the backyard.  _ **_1984_ ** _ and  _ **_Animal Farm_ ** _ ,  _ **_The Stranger_ ** _ , and  _ **_The Invisible Man_ ** _.  _

_ “I saw a video of you on YouTube.” _

_ His voice from the kitchen pulls me from my thoughts, and makes me turn around as he comes back into the room.  _

_ He laughs as he hands me a fresh, cold beer, saying, “Don’t look so frightened, love.” _

_ I feel too vulnerable for words.  _

_ “It were that song– The one Courtney Love liked.” _

_ “Jesus Christ,” I say, covering my face with my hand. _

_ He laughs again. “Don’t be embarrassed, love, really. It was brilliant. Maggied showed it to me– it was what made me say yes to listenin’ to more, and then to meetin’ yeh.” _

_ “I’ll have to thank Maggie for that,” I reply dryly, taking a drink from my new beer. “By the way, have you ever heard of a female author? Or are of the Hemingway persuasion?” _

_ “‘Emingway persuasion?” he looks infinitely amused by me, and I don’t know why I like it, though I know I probably shouldn’t. _

_ “Yeah, you know, a misogynistic dickhead.” _

_ He actually guffaws– which is not something I would expect from Alex Turner, BRIT Awards mic dropper.  _

_ “Don’t ‘old back, McDermott,” he gestures for me to continue. “Tell me like it is.” _

_ “You should try Sylvia Plath,” I tell him, sitting back down, this time on the other side of the couch, feet curled up under me. “Or Daphne DuMaurier.”  _

_ “Shall I write this down?”  _

_ “Also, Eleanor Roosevelt’s biography might do you good.” _

_ “Anything else?”  _

_ “Yeah, I have a copy of the ‘Feminine Mystique’ I can lend you.” _

_ “I shudder to think what you’d say if you saw my film collection.” _

_ “Don’t tell me,” I reply, and I’m slightly tipsy now, high on this conversation, buzzed from talking to Alex. “Marlon Brando as far as the eye can see.”  _

_ “Fair bit of James Dean.” _

_ I groan dramatically in mock-exasperation.  _

_ “Though I love a good Audrey ‘epburn.” _

_ I put a hand to my heart and say, “There’s hope for you yet.” _

_ By the time Dani texts me and asks me if I’m going to need a ride home, or if I’ve been murdered by the Manson Monkey, Alex and I have gone through one six pack and started another. We’ve pulled out the guitars in order to mess with our own moody rendition of a ZZ Top cover, and we’ve gotten halfway through ‘Valley of the Dolls’ while waiting for pizza. I text Dani back and tell her we’re still working, that I’m going to call a cab later. But really, the look of Alex leaning comfortably on his own couch, with his hair coming undone, and his white shirt looking so lived-in while he watches the TV, makes me want to stay for as long as I can. _


	7. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I watch as he makes himself comfortable on my couch, taking his jacket off to reveal the buttoned shirt underneath. My eyes land on his fuzzy head, and I find myself transfixed– at his new hair, at the casual comfort with which he’s sitting in my living room, and it puts a straight shot of adrenaline and anxiety into my bloodstream. After all this time, after the way he was so familiar to me for so long, he looks like his figure is transposed into my immediate space, fake, unbelievable. "
> 
> Alex shows up unannounced at Alexandra's home.

**Four**

_ “No I never really wondered why _

_ I was just trying to pass some time _

_ I ain’t crying, I’m just fine” _

– Alexandra Savior

Alex goes radio silent after Finland. I should have expected it– after the way he was vulnerable with me, saying he needed a break, and that he wished I was his girlfriend. I should have guessed he would drop off the face of the planet again. Because that’s what he does; he disappears when you get too close, evaporates into smoke the minute you touch him.

Maybe it’s why I’m feeling moody and angry the following week, banging away ineloquently on my guitar, and then my piano, drinking wine, alone. I play Nina Simone. I would write my own song– a nice, melodic ‘fuck you’ to him– but my frustration is just getting in the way. And it’s my own fault, really. I knew I shouldn’t have forgiven him, shouldn’t have let him back in after what happened three years ago. 

In fact, my own stupidity makes me hot with shame, the memory of thinking about him while having sex with Jeremy turning my stomach with disgust now. It makes my frustration mount, makes me rip off my sweater, scrape my hair into a messy bun, feeling hot and suffocated. I sit in my living room, in my tank top and leggings, wishing to some higher being for a creative release of my own. But it’s been days of trying to write something about my frustration with Alex, and nothing has happened. So while Dani is in Malibu for the weekend, and Jeremy is at some launch party I refused to join him for, I sit with Nina and get tipsy on cheap cab. 

Putting my guitar aside, I light a cigarette and sit back against the couch, brooding. It makes my stomach hurt– how I feel just like that stupid, wide-eyed girl that showed up on Alex Turner’s doorstep five years ago and let herself get sucked into his world– into the world where I was one step behind him and below, his doe-eyed, female prodigy, the little Lolita in his shadow. It’s like I haven’t learned anything. How naive was I to let myself sit on his couch and think he was flirting with me? How childish to let myself even begin to think of him as anything but a musical mentor, with a slightly toxic, controlling personality? And here I am again, buying his “wish you were me girlfriend” bullshit. 

When my phone rings I feel like I’ve been sitting in a trance, my cigarette has burned down to almost nothing, and I’m shocked to see Alex’s name lighting up my screen. 

I probably shouldn’t answer, but my thoughts aren’t straight enough for me to stop myself. 

“Hello?” I at least have the fortitude to make myself sound annoyed, blasé.

“You still live near Echo Park?” 

“What?” 

“In that brown house, near Echo Park.”

“Yeah?” I wish my voice sounded angrier, less petulant, but I can’t help it. What is his problem? He goes nearly a week without speaking to me, and then  _ this _

Half a beat goes by before I hear a knock at my door, and it makes my heart leap into my throat. 

“You gonna let me in then, love,” he practically purrs into the phone. “Or am I gonna ‘ave to find an open window?” 

The physical reaction I have to his presence– to knowing he’s  _ right there _ – is overwhelming, and I hate it. But I get up anyway, hanging up on him without a word, before I take my time unlocking and opening the door. I have enough time to compose myself, to look unbothered and calm, before he sees me, and it feels like I really could dissolve on the spot. 

The slow smile that spreads across his lips, as he casually stands on my doorstep, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, makes my heart thud in anticipation. I can’t find any words that seem appropriate, so I don’t say anything at all, just let him lean forward and kiss me on the cheek, lingering against my skin longer than necessary. 

“It’s good to see yeh, Savior,” he says when he pulls away, still smiling. 

“You too,” I reply, my voice only giving me away slightly. 

“Can I come in?” 

I should say no. I should tell him that if he wants to see me, we can go out, get a coffee, be in a very public place. But instead, I step aside and let him in. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask, as he walks into the living room, and I simultaneously try to determine if he’s drunk or not from his gait. 

“‘Ad some time off, thought I’d see yeh while I was ‘ome.” 

I watch as he makes himself comfortable on my couch, taking his jacket off to reveal the buttoned shirt underneath. My eyes land on his fuzzy head, and I find myself transfixed– at his new hair, at the casual comfort with which he’s sitting in my living room, and it puts a straight shot of adrenaline and anxiety into my bloodstream. After all this time, after the way he was so familiar to me for so long, he looks like his figure is transposed into my immediate space, fake, unbelievable. 

Alex’s eyes trail around the living room, take in my guitar, and the wine, and then he meets my gaze. I still haven’t moved back into the room, am stuck by the front door, and he laughs. 

“What’s wrong, love?” 

I shake my head, and move to the couch, sitting down against the arm, as far from his as possible given the fact that it’s a loveseat. “I’m surprised,” I say. “Wasn’t exactly expecting you.”

“I told yeh I wanted to see yeh when I was ‘ome, didn’t I?” 

“I didn’t think it would be this soon,” I reply, and I realize I’ve been avoiding eye contact, my anxiety making me cross my arms to hold myself together. I unwind them, grab my glass of wine for something to do, and then meet his eyes, saying, “I actually didn’t think you meant it at all.”

“Come on then,” he says. “Would I lie to you?”

My brows knit together– because is he  _ serious _ ? And he quickly realizes what he’s said, looks uncomfortable and straightens up on the couch, clears his throat. 

“I ‘eard about what ‘appened with the label.”

“From who?” I ask, more defensively than I’d like. “Cameron? Miles?” 

He shrugs, unwilling to snitch, but he does look sad for me. It sets my teeth on edge. “I’m sorry for it, Savior.” 

I take a slug of wine, and then spit back, “Why? ‘Cause it reflects poorly on you and your tutelage?” 

“Alexandra–”

“Don’t.” 

He goes quiet, and I wonder again if he’s sober or not. His eyes look slightly glassy, but he’s holding himself with such composure, so it’s impossible to know. 

“Why ‘aven’t you been writing?” 

“I have.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, so I look up and he’s staring at me. His eyes hold mine, and I feel equal parts turned on and vulnerable and enraged. I’m thinking of all the years that have been spun between the moment we met and now– creating the album, the release, the performances, the press, and all the reasons I have to hate him. It’s making me shake with a mounting pressure I can’t identify. 

I drain my glass of wine. 

“Let me ‘ear somethin’ then.”

“No,” I scoff. “I don’t owe you anything– least of all my music.”

“Come on then, love–”

“ _ No _ .” 

For the first time since stepping inside, Alex pauses–  _ really _ pauses– and he looks bothered. I think he’s finally recognizing my anger. It’s not playful. I’m not flirting. He can see the anxiety and tension, and the unabashed frustration at his presence, and he’s suddenly concerned. 

“Savior,” he whispers, and– god-fucking- _d_ _ amnit _ – it actually gives me goosebumps. He reaches out to me, puts a cool hand on the hot skin of my bare arm, and slides over to my side of the couch. “Talk to me.” 

I’m afraid to speak, to possibly unleash every toxic thought and feeling pent up inside me. I press my lips together, because I’m shaking even harder now, and I know he can feel it now that he’s touching me, and I shake my head. Somewhere amidst the shitstorm swirling around my brain, I’m aware of the fact that I’m in a tank top, that I’m not wearing a bra, that my nipples have gone hard, and my breath has gone short. 

Alex rubs his thumb against the skin of my arm, and he’s staring at my face, at my messy bun and the hairs falling around my face, at my lips, into my eyes. 

“It’s never been like this between us before,” he whispers. “What’s ‘appened then?” 

I stand up suddenly, because I won’t let him play this game. “Are you fucking  _ kidding _ me? My entire career has existed on your coattails, on your fucking  _ favor– _ people don’t even say my name without it being superceded by yours. And then with all of that– with what happened at Hotel Café– and the years in between where I never fucking  _ heard _ from you until you decided to drunk text me– you’re asking me what’s happened?!” 

I’m shouting now, and I’m suddenly embarrassed in the silence that follows, but Alex looks cool and calm, if not a little concerned for me. Still shaking, I put my empty glass down, and I think about asking him to leave. 

“Alexandra, I’m sorry.” 

He doesn’t say what he’s sorry for– for people attaching me to him whether we like it or not, for Hotel Café, for the label dropping me, for playing dumb when he shouldn’t have. Instead, he’s reaching out for me, wrapping his arms around my body as I stand against him sitting on the couch. I don't stop him. I’m still shaking, and he holds me tightly, as if trying to calm me, to keep my intact, but the pressure inside of me is only climbing. 

“I stayed away so long because I thought it was best for _you_ ,” he whispers, looking up at me, his knees pressed against either side of my legs. “I didn’t want to ‘urt you anymore than I already ‘ad.” 

“And you had a girlfriend.” 

“And if I didn’t stay away I knew I would ‘urt ‘er too,” he says, his voice low and deep, making its way directly to my insides. “You don’t know what you do to me, Savior. I can’t stay away anymore. I _need_ you.” 

All the breath leaves my body, and it’s like someone else is moving when I reach up and run my fingers over the short, bristles of his new hair. The second my hand goes to his head, he’s leaning it back, eyes sliding shut. I feel so drawn to him it’s like I’m drunk, like I have no control over my actions. There’s no thought of Jeremy or Taylor or our history, and I don’t care how wrong it is. 

Slowly, I pull my fingers away, and rest my hand on his shoulder. He’s shaking slightly too now, and it makes me go nearly weak at the knees. 

Leaning forward, his mouth goes to my stomach, his breath hot through the material of my tank top. He doesn’t kiss me, just runs his mouth along and up my stomach, between my covered breasts, against the bare skin of my chest, until he’s fully standing, looking down at me. We’re so close I can smell the alcohol he had earlier– scotch– and he’s leaning down to my height, his nose and mouth barely skimming mine. 

“Do you forgive me, love?” 

His words somehow snap me into reality, as he leans forward as if to kiss me. 

_ I could lift you up another semitone _

I put a hand to his chest and push him away gently, and his eyes open slowly, finding mine. I step back and say, “I’m s–sorry– You should go.”

“Alexandra–”

“I have a boyfriend and I– I don’t want it to be like this,” I tell him, though the words sound strange to my ears. “What we had last time was toxic and it wasn’t– It wasn’t right. I don’t want that again. I can be your friend– we can try that– but we can’t do this.”

My voice is shaking but there’s strength in my words. Alex stares down at me, considers me seriously for several long seconds. He doesn’t say anything right away, but he does nod, before he’s reaching back for his jacket and letting me lead him towards the door.  I open it, and before he walks out, he turns to me and takes my free hand. His voice sounds vulnerable and weak when he says, “I really do need you, Alexandra.”

It’s so open and honest– with a tone like he might cry underneath it– that I can’t help but nod. When his eyes hold me longer than necessary, when I’m worried he might actually crumble in front of me from my words, I step forward and kiss him on the cheek once. He nods when I pull away, squeezes my hand, and then he’s gone. 

Once I've closed the door– once I'm totally alone– I let that increasing pressure reach its peek. I step into a freezing cold shower and let my emotions take over, let the ugliness and the jumbled mess of nerves and feelings collide, until I'm sobbing on the floor of the bath tub. I don't know how long I'm in there for, but when I'm spent I'm still alone, and I get out, dry off, put on some sweats, climb into bed, and pretend I'm asleep when Jeremy gets home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Relavent info: 
> 
> Colbert performance by the Arctic Monkeys - https://youtu.be/kRfeJVO_UIE  
> Here Comes the Sun by the Beatles - https://youtu.be/xUNqsfFUwhY  
> Girl of the North Country by Bob Dylan - https://youtu.be/Je4Eg77YSSA  
> Girlie by Alexandra Savior - https://youtu.be/9a65ZcLM_1E  
> Miracle Aligner by The Last Shadow Puppets - https://youtu.be/VPsyynjHpbY  
> It's Hard to Get Around the Wind by Alex Turner - https://youtu.be/gLildVN4c74  
> Brit Awards Speech 2014 - https://youtu.be/rOVT5ujsr8s


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